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"Four Stars! I really enjoyed “The Assassins Blade,” even though I admit that I would have loved the story to be a bit longer, as it really does have the potential to make an excellent longer length book. The plot has a couple of good twists. The story centers around Faylyn and the man who pursues her and the erotic scenes, which have some elements of light bondage, are quite hot. This is Lyssa Hart’s first offering as a writer and I look forward to her future works." Mireya Orsini, Just Erotic Romance Review Newsletter
"This is a very fast paced short story and watching the truth come out between Faylyn and Talor is very exciting. This is Ms. Hart's first published work and look forward to seeing more from her in the future." The Romance Studio
"Short and sassy, THE ASSASSIN'S BLADE is a treat despite its length, and packs a powerful punch. I loved the verbal play between the characters. All in all, don't miss this author. From what I've seen, she's got many more hot futuristic romances coming in the future!" Sensual Romance
THE ASSASSIN'S BLADE
By
Lyssa Hart
© copyright July 2003 by Lyssa Hart
Cover Art by Eliza Black
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
Faylyn was just congratulating herself on her cleverness in bypassing the famous royal security of the fif'Steorra Lumen when she made a most unpleasant discovery. The Royal ball in progress was a masque.
Though she remained outwardly calm, indecision churned through her as she stared out over the milling throng below her from her position on the second floor balcony mezzanine overlooking the massive, glittering ballroom.
It occurred to her after several moments that there was no need to abort her mission. The discovery simply required an adjustment to her plans—a contingency she’d been well trained for. The upside to the discovery was that stealth was no longer a particularly high priority. There seemed to be no particular theme to the masquerade and, considering the outlandish costumes the guests were wearing, it seemed unlikely anyone would think much of a ‘blue’ garbed as a Kilrathi assassin. In truth, it occurred to her that her chances of carrying out her assignment and living to tell about it were dramatically improved, though, like all assassins trained in the death arts by the Kilrathi, Faylyn had long ago accepted that her first mission might well be her last.
In this particular case, Faylyn had allowed no doubts about possible failure, no qualms about the likelihood that she’d been sent on a suicide mission. She’d been born for this opportunity, had yearned for it throughout the years of training, waiting impatiently for her coming of age.
If she could only kill Talor Sylvanos, Emperor of the fif'Steorra Lumen, the man who had destroyed her world, she would die a happy woman.
But therein lay the crux of the problem, and the inescapable downside of her present circumstances.
She had memorized the face of the man she’d come to assassinate and now saw that she was not likely to find him among the hundreds of guests, even if he was present.
Thrusting her doubts aside, she stepped from the shadows and moved casually toward the stairs that led down to the ballroom. As she made her way slowly down, she gazed out over the throng of guests, scanning and discarding possibilities.
As massive and crowded as the room was, it was well lit and her vantage point on the stairs allowed her to see the entire room, from the entrance just below, to the wall of glass doors along the back that opened onto a wide, open air walk. The room was elegantly appointed, displaying the craftsmanship of artisans from the many worlds that comprised the fif'Steorra Lumen in everything from it’s furnishings; to the gilded moldings; to the eating and drinking vessels the guests used; to the fine silk that covered it’s walls and the carpeting that covered all but the tiled dance floor.
There must have been upwards of five hundred guests in the room below, seated along the raised banquet that surrounded the dance floor, or gyrating on the dance floor itself.
Nevertheless, the Emperor had been described to her as a ‘giant of a man’, well over six feet tall, powerfully built—a formidable warrior. Surely, with or without a costume, he would find it difficult to disguise such an imposing figure?
She was halfway down the stairs when she spotted a knot of men who fit that precise description. A frown of puzzlement gathered on her brow as she scanned each in turn. There must have been a dozen of them, and all fit the general description.
All wore identical costumes; a mask which covered the upper portion of their faces and their hair; a deep purple cloak; leather leggings and knee boots; a loose flowing, white shirt, opened to the waist, beneath the cloak; and on each chest glittered a medallion indicating rank in the royal guard.
It had just clicked in her mind that the group she’d discovered could be none other than the Emperor’s personal guard when she realized that she had caught the interest of one of the men.
From halfway across the ballroom, their gazes locked. A ripple of something unidentifiable went through Faylyn. What was this strange, almost breathless anticipation that surged through her? Uneasiness? She was certain it could not be. She had never known self-doubt where her abilities were concerned. Why then would she feel uneasy? She was in no danger, that she could see, of discovery.
It seemed a poor time for self-analysis. She dismissed it after only a moment, allowing her lips to curve in a faint smile of invitation before she broke the hold his gaze held upon her with an effort, studying the men around him as she continued down the stairs. She was no closer, however, to singling Talor Sylvanos out when she reached the ground floor. She hesitated, filled with unaccustomed doubt.
Finally, she decided it would be best to wait and see if the man who’s interest she’d captured sought her out and play it from there. Turning away from where she’d last seen him, Faylyn made her way to the refreshment table.
She was not accustomed to drinking beverages with alcoholic content. One of the primary lessons of her training in the death arts by the Kilrathi was that an assassin never polluted their body, or dulled their senses, with drugs in any form. Their wit was as necessary to their mission as their physical skills. To allow even a little was to risk a moment of hesitancy, or indecision, or a slowing of reflexes that might mean failure and death.
Unfortunately, the Emperor’s staff had made no allowances for the possibility of a Kilrathi assassin among the guests. She’d just requested a glass of water when she felt warmth at her back. A hand—a very large hand—skated across her lower back and settled on one hip, just above the waistband of the skirt that rode low on her hips.
Faylyn did not jump, but, despite her training, she could not refrain from stiffening. Slowly, she turned her head. As tall as she was, as accustomed as she was to finding herself looking down at the average man, or at the very least, eye to eye, she found herself gazing at a very broad, very muscular chest. That strange, unidentifiable emotion washed through her again, more intense than before, more disorienting. With an effort, she lifted her gaze, noting a strong, youthful neck, a square jaw and decisive chin, a hard mouth, curled faintly in a smile beneath the mask, before her gaze at last met the one bent upon her.
“I thought my eyes had deceived me … or, at the very least it was no more than a part of your masquerade. You are a blue.”
Faylyn wasn’t certain of how she should respond to the comment. It was a statement, after all—not a question. His surprise was understandable. Her race had been all but obliterated when their world was destroyed. The handful that had survived were scattered across the known universe. She had only once met one of her own kind herself--not surprisingly since she’d spent fifteen of her twenty three years of life inside ‘the citadel’ of Kilrathi—but she was well aware of their rarity and might have met no others even if she had not been cloistered.
His obvious pleasure, however, confused her.
“As you see,” she responded finally.
She steeled herself as he reached toward her, relaxing only fractionally when he grasped a lock of her hair and lifted it to study the gleaming blue mass.
“What are you called?” he asked when he released the lock of hair at last and met her gaze once more.
Faylyn hesitated, then forced a coy smile. “I thought the point of a masquerade was to allow you to pretend to be someone else for one night?”
He frowned, but finally smiled ruefully. “This is not the game I wish to play.”
She was taken aback by the comment, briefly at a loss for words. “I’m not at all certain I want to know what game you had in mind,” she said dryly.
His rueful smile broadened into a grin that made her heart skip several beats. “I like to flatter myself that it’s one you would enjoy as much as I.”
To her surprise, she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. Although unaccustomed to the art of flirtation and seduction, she was fairly certain she knew his meaning.
He frowned as he noted the blush, but his surprise was quickly replaced by a heated look that made her blush more pronounced. “You’ve not experienced the awakening?”
It was more a statement than a question. Disconcerted that it was apparently so obvious, Faylyn turned away. “You are far too bold for my taste,” she said coldly. “If you will excuse me….”
He grasped her arm when she would have departed. Faylyn looked down at his hand pointedly before she gave him a cold, unflinching stare. She dared do no more, however. At another time, in another place, he would have not seen death coming so swiftly would she have retaliated for his audacity, but she was of no mind to allow the oaf to jeopardize her mission.
“I did not give you leave,” he said coolly, his tone and manner an odd combination of surprise, indignation and amusement.
“I did not ask it,” she responded tightly, regretful that she could not even wipe the smirk from his face by depositing him in an ignominious heap on the floor.
A deep chuckle escaped him. The heart stopping smile returned, though leavened with a touch of self-mockery that went a long way to appeasing her indignation. He did not release her. “You wound me, princess!” he protested. “I’d thought myself proficient in the art of seduction.”
Faylyn smiled icily. “Self-deception can be a wonderful thing. I’m sorry to have to wound you further, but I see no evidence of proficiency in the art, quite the contrary, in fact. Your compliments are heavy handed and obvious, your directness only slightly more charming than insulting. Now, if you’ll release me….”
Surprise loosened his grip. Faylyn took full advantage of it and moved away.
It was a shame, really. He was obviously a member of the royal guard, close to the Emperor. A brief association might have been useful, except for the fact that the man was impossible.
He fell into step beside her. She slid a cold glance in his direction, but otherwise gave no indication that she was aware of the fact that he was dogging her steps as she made her way around the edge of the crowded dance floor.
“Would you care to dance?”
“No.”
“You find me repulsive?”
It was hardly a question—more of a demand, but laced with disbelief. “I find you annoying. Run along now, there’s a good fellow.”
She left him with his jaw at half cock, glancing around as she moved through the crowd for a point of vantage where she might study the other members of the group the oaf hailed from. One of them was most likely the Emperor, though she could not rule out the possibility that he was not present at all. It was a well know fact that the Emperor rarely attended the balls he threw. Though the events were designed to promote goodwill, he seemed to prefer smaller, more intimate gatherings with his close friends.
Nevertheless, their intelligence had indicated that he would be present, if only for a short time, at the ball tonight.
The dance floor of the ballroom was slightly lower than the area around it. As tempted as she was to go back up the stairs she’d so recently descended, the balcony above lacked convenience, despite it’s superiority as a vantage point. If she spotted her target, she wanted to be able to move into position quickly, and unobtrusively. Instead of climbing the stairs once more, therefore, she merely climbed the two shallow steps to the seating area on the banquet surrounding the dance floor and glanced out over the heaving throng once more.
The men of the royal guard, she saw, had spread out across the room. She bit her lip in vexation. She might have discerned more from a side by side comparison, but she’d lost that chance. As advantageous as it would be to strike while the ball was in full swing, it began to seem certain that she would be forced to bide her time until it ended and catch her quarry in the royal apartments.
Even so, there was still a certain advantage to striking this night. The refreshments were flowing freely. No doubt there would be few left standing by the end of the evening. Those who were would be at a definite disadvantage due to intoxication.
A large hand slid around her waist, settling on her hip. Faylyn drove her elbow into the mid-section she knew was directly behind her. A gratifying grunt of pain rewarded her efforts.
“You are being most uncooperative.”
There was amusement in the voice. The faint smile of satisfaction left her lips. They tightened with annoyance at his apparently imperturbable self-confidence. “You noticed that?”
“I find myself intrigued.”
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